


A Tale Of Two Friendships (Part 2 of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR)

by Avery11



Series: THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR [2]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, blue sheep, ten plagues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The strange adventure continues. Why is someone threatening to destroy both UNCLE and THRUSH?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale Of Two Friendships (Part 2 of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR)

THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR is a three-part series.

 **Start from the beginning** with: Part One: The Trouble With Amphibians: http://archiveofourown.org/works/444749

 

 

**A Tale Of Two Friendships**

(Part 2 of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR) 

**It Was the Best of Times...**

 

It was, for Illya and Napoleon, that rarest of occasions: an ordinary Sunday morning. Outside the brick walls of Napoleon's apartment building, pedestrians strolled, flowers bloomed in window boxes, and the morning sun shone brightly, a rare and welcome sight after the miserable, sodden Spring they had endured. But more importantly, the agents had managed to secure a few precious hours of downtime away from HQ, their thoughts momentarily freed from the ever-present threat of THRUSH and plagues and Waverly's escalating ire.    

Illya, blue-jeaned, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned, slung his bare feet across the arm of Napoleon's sofa, and idly turned the pages of The Sunday Times. The strains of Miles Davis' complex new album, _Les Filles de Kilimanjaro,_ drifted up from the stereo. He sighed with happiness.

“The man is a genius, Napoleon. Listen to how the meter keeps changing. And the tonal center is in constant flux as well.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It's brilliant. Dangerous. Like walking a tightrope without a net.”

“I'll take your word for it,” Napoleon replied as he scrambled three more eggs to accompany the rashers of bacon frying in the other pan. “Incidentally, didn't your mother teach you to keep your feet off the good furniture?”

“We barbarians did not have furniture.” He tossed aside the Arts & Leisure section, and turned to the Comics. “Is my bacon ready?”

“Just about. Although how you can still be hungry after what you've eaten is a mystery to puzzle the ages.”

“No more of a mystery than your insatiable appetite for women.”

“It's --” _Not the same at all,_ he was about to say, but the ringing phone interrupted him. “Get that, will you , Illya? Your eggs are still runny.”

With a sigh, Illya heaved himself up from the sofa, and padded across the floor to the telephone. “Hello?” His face broke into a smile. “It's your sister, Artemesia,” he announced cheerfully.

“Tell her I'll be right there.” Napoleon slid the eggs onto a plate, and added several slices of bacon. “Try not to inhale this time,” he said as he passed the plate across the counter. “The chickens are threatening to go on strike.” Ignoring Illya's scowl, he picked up the receiver. “Hey, li'l Sis. To what do I owe this delightful surprise?” He sipped his orange juice as he listened. “Oh, nothing too exciting. You know, just your average, dull workweek.”

At the counter, Illya snorted softly.

“Memorial Day picnic? Gee, I'm not sure I can make it this year. Works been a bear; I've had to put in a lot of overtime recently.” He chewed thoughtfully on a slice of bacon. “Really? Hippolyta's coming in? Yeah it's been too long --”

At that moment, Napoleon's and Illya's communicators began to beep simultaneously.

 _“Chyort,”_ Illya muttered under his breath. “There goes our Sunday morning.”

“Can I call you back, Sis? Someone's at the door.”

Illya stuffed a final forkful of egg in his mouth, and activated his communicator. “Kuryakin here.”

“Damned inconvenient, your choosing to take Sunday off, I must say,” Alexander Waverly declared without preamble. “Is Mr. Solo there with you?”

“I'm here, sir,” Napoleon called out. “We were just finishing breakfast. Incidentally, why are you using the auxiliary channel?”

“Never mind that. Breakfast? At eleven o'clock in the morning? Really, Mr. Solo, I wish I had the luxury of dawdling over _my_ breakfast until almost noon.”

Napoleon was fairly sure that the head of UNCLE's New York Bureau wouldn't dawdle over his breakfast, no matter when it was served. In fact, he probably had been at his desk since dawn. If he had even bothered to go home. Rumor had it that Waverly seldom slept at all, such was the great man's dedication to his cause.

“Gentlemen,” he intoned solemnly, “we have a situation at Headquarters.”

The agents were instantly alert. “What sort of situation?” he asked, although he suspected he already knew.

“Suffice it to say that there have been further developments in “The Ten Plagues Affair.”

 _Another plague._ He could feel it in the pit of his stomach. The first one had disrupted operations at UNCLE's New York Headquarters for nearly three days. The second, an infestation of close to a hundred thousand grasshoppers, had forced the cancellation of an important peace conference. The third had seen the water supply for the building contaminated with a viscous red liquid that bore an unsettling resemblance to fresh blood.

It was embarrassing, the ease with which UNCLE New York had been turned upside down. THRUSH, despite its huge network and vast resources, had never achieved that degree of success and yet, somehow, an unaffiliated upstart named Whimsy Darlington had managed to pull it off. Napoleon knew that fact stuck in Waverly's craw.

“Thankfully, Headquarters does not appear to be in imminent danger. As to the precise nature of the latest nuisance, we can discuss that when the two of you get here -- an event which I hope will not be delayed for very much longer. Oh, and gentlemen --?”

“Sir?”

“Bring a flashlight.”

Illya frowned. “A flashlight?”

“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. That is what I said. Now, if you have no further questions, I'll expect you in my office in an hour.”

“Yes, sir. Kuryakin out.”

Their eyes met.

“Ah, well,” Napoleon said rather wistfully, “it was nice while it lasted.”

He dialed Aretmesia's number, and waited impatiently while it rang on the other end. “Sorry about the interruption,” he said when she picked up. “There's been a problem at the office, and I have to go in. Some sort of emergency -- yes, I know it's Sunday.” He listened. “It can't be helped, I'm afraid. Better count me out for Memorial Day, too. Tell Hippolyta I'll be sorry to miss her visit. Next time, I promise.” He sighed, feeling just the tiniest bit sorry for himself. “Love you too, Sis. And hey, don't go kissing any frogs.”

He replaced the receiver in its cradle. “Someday I'm actually going to make it to one of those parties,” he said.

Like a well-rehearsed piece of choreography, the pair sprinted into motion, closing venetian blinds and curtains, and stacking dirty dishes in the sink. “I need a quick shave,” Napoleon said as he dropped off the last dish and headed for the bathroom. “Give me ten minutes.” Emergency or not, Mr. Waverly would never tolerate an unkempt CEA.

Illya had already turned off the stereo, and was searching under the sofa for his shoes. “What do you suppose the elusive Miss Darlington has done this time?”

Napoleon paused, razor in hand. “No idea, but you can bet we won't like it.”

“I hope it isn't more grasshoppers. The corpses crunch so, underfoot.” Illya located a single, battered loafer wedged under one of the sofa cushions. He slipped it on, and continued to hunt for its mate. “Your sister Artemesia sounds nice, by the way. Pleasant.”

“Pleasant? Artemesia? Hah!”

“Really? She seemed quite civilized.”

 “Barely civil is more like it. The only one I know with a worse temper than Artemesia is Hippolyta. It's too bad UNCLE didn't recruit them -- THRUSH would be begging for permission to surrender by now.”

“You make her sound like a shrew in need of taming - - aha!” Illya lifted a second loafer in triumph.

“Well, maybe not that bad. But there'll be hell to pay once word gets back to Hippolyta that I'm missing yet another family event.”

Illya snorted. “Hippolyta. Isn't anyone in your family named Dick or Jane?”

“If there are, they've gone into hiding from sheer embarrassment.” Napoleon selected a clean suit from the closet. “Dad wanted his children named after famous warriors and generals. Mom, on the other hand, wanted nice normal-sounding names like Robert and Cathy and little Peggy Sue.”

“So, what happened?”

“Unfortunately for Mom, our father was fairly underhanded when it came to winning an argument. She was under general anesthesia for all three deliveries, and by the time she woke up, the paperwork had been filed and the deed was done.” He shook his head. “Dad always did get his way.”

“Ah. Your devious nature is inherited, then.”

“Undoubtedly. Hippolyta's the oldest, our aptly named Queen of the Amazons. I'm in the middle, and Artemesia is the baby of the family.” He adjusted his cufflinks, and turned to the mirror to check the knot in his tie. “We fought a fair number of playground battles over those names, I can tell you.”

“Bullies and tormentors,” Illya murmured. “They are everywhere, I suppose. Did you leave any of them standing?”

Napoleon peered around the doorjamb, smiling his lethal smile. “Not a one.”

They dug their emergency valises out of the hall closet, and turned off the air conditioner. After a final check of the premises, they set the intricate alarm system, and exited the apartment without further delay.

“I will need a change of clothes,” Illya reminded him as they stood waiting for the elevator.

“No problem. We can stop at your apartment for something in your usual basic black.”

Not all my suits are black,” Illya protested with mild offense. “I have that burgundy jacket.”

Napoleon winced. “Don't remind me.”

The elevator arrived with a ping, and the pair rode down in silence, their minds already on the task at hand.

“Come on, _tovarisch._ Looks like it's our turn to save the world again.”

Illya shrugged. “Isn't it always?”

 

 

**Act II: It Was the Worst Of Times...**

 

Illya turned off of bustling Second Avenue, and drove slowly down the quaint side street that was home to UNCLE's New York Headquarters. His practiced eye took in the group of children gathered around the Good Humor truck in the nearby park, the two men sitting on the front stoop, listening to a ballgame on a portable radio, and the woman pushing a fussy toddler in a stroller. He also noted the armed security detail on the roof of Paganini's Flower Shoppe, and the pair of UNCLE snipers, one optimally positioned on the topmost floor of The Mask Club, the other on the roof of an adjacent apartment building. “Heightened security measures,” he murmured.

Napoleon nodded. He had seen the snipers, too.

They passed Del Floria's, closed on Sunday for appearance's sake, in compliance with the City's Blue Laws. The entrance was dark and silent, the blinds, drawn.

A security guard checked their ID's, and waved them into the UNCLE parking garage. Illya steered the DeLorean into its assigned space on the top level, adjacent to the Agents' Entrance.

“Let's go see what all the fuss is about,” Napoleon said. He keyed the entry code into the wall panel, and they waited for the sliding metal doors to hiss open.

Nothing happened.

They drew their weapons, and Napoleon re-keyed the code. This time the doors groaned and squealed, and managed to move apart a few inches. A pair of woman's hands appeared in the breach, several of her red-lacquered fingernails badly chipped.

“You'll have to put some elbow grease into it, I'm afraid.” The voice was distinctly Asian, but with the broad underpinning of a true Downeast native.

The two men braced themselves on either side of the door frame, and tugged at the opening until it was large enough to admit them.

They stepped into the darkness.

“What the --?”

The only light in the room came from a small flashlight propped atop the rack of badges, and a pair of votive candles flanking either side of the main desk.

“What the devil is wrong with those doors?” Napoleon demanded of the receptionist, a pretty Japanese woman whose name escaped him. “And what's happened to the lights?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Solo,” she replied. “And Mr. Kuryakin. I was told to expect you. Congratulations on getting through.” She heaved to, and watched as the doors snapped shut once more. “Oh, nuts, I broke another nail.”

“Is the entire building like this?”

“I'm afraid so. The power's been out for the better part of an hour. And before you ask, Mr. Waverly is fine. His office is the only one with electricity.”

Napoleon relaxed marginally.

“As for the rest of us --” She shrugged. “We're making due with what we have. Every once in awhile, I can get a trickle of residual power from the main system, enough to move these doors an inch or two, but that's about it.”

“Napoleon,” Illya broke in sharply, “this does not make sense. All of UNCLE's systems are designed with multiple safeguards to insure continuity of performance. In the event of a power failure, one of the backup generators should have kicked in.”

“They're out, too,” the woman said.

“ _All_ of them?”

“Afraid so.”

Napoleon thought for a moment. “Estelle, isn't it? Estelle Shimuzu?”

She nodded.

“Have they figured out what caused the outage?”

“Not to my knowledge. Security and Maintenance teams are checking into it now, but if there've been any updates, I haven't heard.”

“What about the surrounding neighborhood? Are other buildings on the street affected, too?”

“No, sir. The power's on everywhere but here at HQ,” Estelle replied. “And before you ask, there are no disruptions in the City's power grid. The power's there; we're just unable to access it.”

It was like trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together, but without all the pieces. “Can you describe what happened at the moment the power went off?”

“There's not much to tell. I was getting ready to leave for my eleven o'clock break when suddenly the lights went out all over HQ.”

“There was no warning?” Illya asked. “None at all?”

“None. One minute, lights; the next, pitch black. Honestly, I couldn't believe how dark it was. Serves me right for working in a building with no windows.” She laughed. “I'm lucky I keep a flashlight and candles in my desk drawer. An old habit that comes from growing up on the coast of Maine, I suppose. We used to have power outages all the time during winter storms.”

Illya's brow furrowed. “Please try to remember, Miss Shimuzu: was there a power surge of any kind before the blackout? Or an unusual sound or flash?”

“No, sir. I would have noticed that. The lights just -- went out.” She handed them their badges. “Anyway, Mr. Waverly said to send you up as soon as you arrived.”

“Thanks, Estelle,” Napoleon smiled reassuringly. “And try not to worry. I'm sure the power will be back on soon.”

Estelle shrugged. “I sure hope so. It's been pretty boring, sitting here in the dark with nothing to do.” She repositioned her flashlight, and resumed filing her broken nails.

 

*/*/*/

 

Like Queen Victoria before him, Alexander Waverly was not amused. He glared at the stack of new reports coming in from all departments, a pile that had more than doubled in the last hour. He glared at the new and inelegant humidor that had replaced his beloved antique, broken during the recent unpleasantness. And he glared at his top team of agents, seated across from him at the round table, doing their best to remain composed under his scrutiny.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “the situation is completely unacceptable. Once again, UNCLE New York has been subjected to the most acrimonious of attacks. Wilhelmena Darlington, aka 'Whimsy' --” He said the name as though he had a bad taste in his mouth. “ -- has managed to infiltrate our Headquarters not once, but on four separate occasions. And we are no closer than before to discovering how she's getting in. What have you gentlemen to say for yourselves?”

Napoleon glanced uneasily at his partner. “Not much, I'm afraid. We have teams on every continent looking for her, but it's as if she's vanished from the face of the planet. Her name, address, personal history -- they're all bogus. We don't even know _who_ she is, much less where to find her.”

“Security has checked building perimeters for undefended access points,” Illya added, “but they have found nothing amiss. Clearly, she has found a way to bypass our security protocols, but we have been unable to discover how she does it.”

“No progress whatsoever?” Waverly's eye practically spit fire. “Gentlemen, this is a serious business we are in. Nations are at war out there. Corruption runs rampant. People are dying. We have no time to waste on Miss Darlington and her petty distractions. We need to know who this woman is, and why she has had the audacity to target our organization.”

Illya hesitated. “Sir, we do have one possible lead --”

“Well, Mr. Kuryakin? Out with it.”

“We have traced the purchase of a large number of frogs to a pet supply house in Queens, a place called _Wild World._ They specialize in the sale of exotic animals to private collectors, zoos and the like. We have checked, and they appear to be entirely legal and above board. Also, they keep detailed records of everything they sell. They list the purchaser of the frogs as one Aristotle Varga of Manorville, Long Island. He has an estate out on the edge of the Pine Barrens.”

Waverly reached for his pipe. “Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, I know where Manorville is. Go on.”

“Varga is elderly, wealthy, eccentric. His _cause célèbre_ is the preservation of exotic and endangered species throughout the world. To that end, he has built a private animal sanctuary on the grounds of his estate, _Erebos,_ where he breeds all manner of exotic creatures.”

“Did you say _'Erebos?'”_

Illya nodded. “It means 'shadow of darkness' in ancient Greek.”

“Erebos was also the son of the primordial god, Chaos. Interesting. What else do we know about him?”

Napoleon picked up the thread. “Quite a lot,” he said. “The man is older than Methuselah and richer than Croesus. His business dealings have been squeaky clean for nearly sixty years, and he retains a seat on the governing board of the New York Stock Exchange. Blue chip all the way. No known ties to THRUSH, and no questionable affiliations.”

Waverly puffed upon his pipe, although it remained unlit. “Very well,” he said at last. “I want you to check out Varga and his animal sanctuary -- personal history, family ties, financial obligations. Find out whether he has any connection to the mysterious Miss Darlington.”

Lisa Rogers slipped quietly into the room. “Good news, sir,” she said. “Our technicians have managed to get the power back on. Backup generators are functioning again as well.”

“Thank you, Miss Rogers. Let the Section Heads know that I will want a full report on my desk by the end of the day. That will be all for now.”

“Yes, sir.” The door hissed reassuringly closed behind her.

Waverly toyed with his pipe, his fingers clenching reflexively around the stem. As the agents watched, he picked up the shiny new humidor, and caressed it's smooth metal surface. He put it down, unopened.

“If you're worried about the contents, sir --”

He favored Napoleon with the ghost of a smile. “Ah, Mr. Solo, if only it were as simple as a misplaced frog. Rather, it is that an old man can have too many memories.” He contemplated the canister as though it held some great, irreparable sorrow.

The agents glanced at one another, mystified.

“The truth is, an old friend gave me my antique humidor, years ago. It was an ugly old thing, but I loved it. My friend is -- no longer with us, a fact that saddens me no less with the passage of time. Now, with the humidor gone, I fear that pipe-smoking no longer holds the allure for me that it once did.” With a sigh, he slipped his Meerschaum back into the drawer.

Napoleon stared in abject fascination. Illya busied himself re-reading a report he had already memorized. Neither spoke, but each understood that they had been privy to an extraordinary event. The Old Man was a warrior who rarely exposed his personal life to scrutiny and yet, for a few moments, he had lain his undefended heart upon their table. They wondered who the old friend had been, and why that person had meant so much to Alexander Waverly.

 

*/*/*/

 

 

 

 

 

**Act III: These Are Dangerous Times...**

 

They set out for Manorville the next morning, following the Long Island Expressway eastward, down the length of the Island. Illya had wanted to take the DeLorean, but Napoleon insisted on a more nondescript vehicle for the occasion. In the end, they both compromised, and settled on a sleek Pontiac Grand Prix.

“Everyone has a Pontiac these days,” was Illya's reasoning. “We will blend right in.”

“Not in Matador Red, we won't.”

They passed the towns of Ronkonkoma and Patchogue, Centerreach and Wading River. Illya happily munched a Velveeta cheese sandwich as they drove.

“I don't know how you can eat that stuff,” Napoleon declared with a shudder. “It's so processed, I doubt it's even cheese anymore.”

“You are a food snob, Napoleon. Kindly leave me to my pleasures.”

“It's your stomach.”

The exited the Expressway at Manorville, and quickly found themselves on a succession of dusty county roads. Now, instead of towns and villages, they passed small family farms, cranberry bogs, vegetable stands and rows of rusty mailboxes, all surrounded by mile after unrelenting mile of scrub oak and pitch pine.

At last they reached the towering iron gates of  _Erebos_ , and were waved through without incident. Napoleon had called ahead for the appointment, styling himself as a venture capitalist, a self-made millionaire with a passion for saving the planet. His projected net worth had secured him a personal meeting with Varga himself.

They followed the winding drive past a flock of oddly colored sheep and several varieties of deer on their way to the house, a futuristic monstrosity of glass and steel that towered like an obscene colossus above the pastoral landscape.

“Homey,” was Napoleon's only comment.

The butler, a portly, cheerful gentleman, ushered them into the study, chattering all the while about the delightful weather they were having. “Mr. Brookings Fowler-Klein and his assistant, Stanislas Mann,” he announced to the man standing by the window.

“Gentlemen, welcome.”

Aristotle Varga was, as Napoleon had described, older than Methuselah. Despite the expensive suit he wore, the man resembled nothing so much as a bag of bones held together by sheer will. His face was a network of crags and spider veins, and he had a thick shock of white hair that looked as though it weighed more than the man himself. As they watched, Varga tottered forward on legs so frail and spindled, it seemed the slightest breeze might blow him away.

“Please, won't you sit down?” he wheezed. He indicated a pair of lucite chairs shaped like paper clips, positioned beside a triangular table that resembled a set piece from a science fiction movie. Varga lowered himself into a third chair, a white plastic egg with a single coiled spring for its base. “Vitrios will bring us iced tea while we chat.”

“Interesting place you have here,” Napoleon observed, falling easily into character. “I take it you collect Bauhaus?”

Varga nodded. “I'm pleased to see you know something about it, Mr. Fowler-Klein. Yes, Bauhaus is a passion of mine. My home was designed by Konstantinidis, and those chairs you are sitting in are, of course, Walter Gropius originals. Form must always follow function, don't you agree?”

“Well, perhaps not all the time,” Napoleon countered, earning a smirk from the Russian.

Vitrios returned, bearing a pitcher of peach iced tea. He poured them each a glass, and retreated as silently as he had come.

“Tell me, gentlemen,” Varga warbled, sipping his drink with trembling hands, “how did you hear about our sanctuary? It's not exactly public knowledge.”

“One of your recent customers mentioned it, a charming young woman by the name of --” He snapped his fingers.

“Wilhelmena Darlington, sir,” Illya supplied, fulfilling his role as Fowler-Klein's assistant.

“Darlington?” The old man smacked his lips thoughtfully. "I don't recall anyone by that name.”

“It would have been sometime last month. She may have expressed interest in your collection of exotic frogs.”

“Frogs?” He stared blankly for a moment, and then his face lit up. “Oh my, yes, I remember now! A pretty young thing. Passionate about the plight of our endangered amphibian friends. Her dream was to create a permanent exhibit, to educate the public about the need for conservation. As I recall, she had purchased quite a large number of rare frogs recently, and had a number of questions regarding their care.”

“Yes, that's her,” Napoleon smiled disarmingly. “I confess, I was rather taken with the young lady. You wouldn't happen to know how I might get in touch with her?”

“Not offhand.” He thought for a moment. “Tell you what,” he said, “why don't I have one of my people give you a tour of the sanctuary? While you're gone, Vitrios can look up the bill of sale and jot down Miss Darlington's contact information for you.”

Napoleon hesitated. “I do have several pressing engagements --”

“It will take some time to go through the invoices, and you did say you wanted to see the sanctuary.”

He glanced at Illya, who shrugged imperceptibly. “Well, when you put it that way -- sure, why not?” 

 

*/*/*/ 

 

They headed into the Barrens, the Aussie driver of their Jeep providing them with a constant string of commentary on the sanctuary and its inhabitants. “Over there, you can see one of the very last Javan Rhinos in existence. Mr. Varga is hoping to find a male to breed her with, and restore the species to a viable population.”

“Fascinating,” Napoleon said, and brushed a layer of dust from his Italian silk suit.

“The sanctuary is home to Iberian lynx, Bactrian camel, African wild ass and, of course, the dwarf blue sheep you saw on your way in. We also have a number of predator species: brown grizzlies, red and Ethiopian wolves. The grazers are kept separate from the predators for now, but once the populations reach healthy numbers --”

“Don't the animals ever escape?” Illya interrupted. The man's constant chatter was giving him a headache.

“The compound is surrounded by a twenty-thousand-volt electric fence. Escape is impossible for them.” The Jeep slowed. “And, unfortunately, for you.”

They barely had time to hear the high-pitched whistling sound. Illya reached up and, as his vision blurred, pulled a small dart from his neck. _“Chyort!”_

As Napoleon fought to remain conscious, he caught snatches of conversation between the driver and another party. The voice seemed familiar, but in his drugged state, he was unable to place it.

“Shall I finish the job, Miss?”

“No thank you, Croyden. I'm not done playing with these two just yet.” She stepped into his line of vision for an instant; he caught a glimpse of dark hair and violet eyes.

“Whimsy --” he gasped as the world went dark. 

*/*/*/

 

Napoleon woke to find himself flat on his back in the middle of the underbrush, the Jeep long gone. Illya lay beside him, pale and still. A vulture sat a short distance away, watching.

“Illya! Wake up,  _tovarisch._ ”

The Russian groaned.  _“Chto - -? Idite atsyuda. Chertov ublydudski!”_

“Such language from a Cambridge man. I'm shocked.”

After a moment, Illya hauled himself to a sitting position. He held his head in his hands.  _“Katory chas?”_

“Noon. We should get moving as soon as you're able. Varga's men can't have gone far.”

"Any idea where we are?”

Napoleon shook his head. “We were driven somewhere after we were knocked unconscious, probably so we couldn't retrace our steps. It looks like we're still in the Pine Barrens, but who knows?”

Illya reached for his communicator.

“Don't bother. Our weapons are gone, too. And our shoes. Not even an exploding cufflink to start a fire with.”

“That may be the least of our worries,” Illya said. He pointed toward the southern horizon, where a cloud of dark smoke was rising. “Brush fire, a large one by the look of it. And it is coming this way.”

They stumbled to their feet, still woozy from the effects of the drug, and moved off quickly in hopes of distancing themselves from the blaze. The wind had picked up, and after a few minutes, it was apparent that the fire was gaining ground. The smell of smoke was more intense, and an occasional flurry of ash drifted down, settling upon their clothing.

“We cannot outrun it,” Illya gasped.

Napoleon nodded in weary agreement. “Next best option?”

“If we can find a pond or a river, we may be able to use it as a firebreak, putting it between us and the fire. That is, if we do not perish from smoke inhalation first.”

“You're a bundle of joy sometimes, do you know that? Okay, which way?”

“Assuming we are still in the Pine Barrens, south. It is a shorter distance to the coast, in any case.”

Napoleon nodded, and they moved off once more. The smell of smoke was stronger now, and the ash fell more heavily. It singed their exposed skin, and burned the soles of bare their feet as they ran.

They crested a small ridge, and were dismayed to see a second fire bearing down upon them from the east.

“Our Miss Darlington certainly knows how to throw a party,” Napoleon said. His chest heaved as his oxygen-starved lungs struggled to take in precious air. “Now what?”

Illya surveyed the ash-covered landscape of pitch pine and scrub oak, the foliage beginning to steam. “There! That lush patch of vegetation. See all the swarming insects?”

“I don't --”

“Those are newly-hatched mayflies. Mayflies always lay their eggs in streams and ponds. There is water close by. Hurry!” He took off at a dead run, Napoleon following close behind.

As they sprinted through the dense underbrush, they could hear the fire's roar drawing closer. The smoke was thick and impenetrable now, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. Flames licked at the branches above them; they could feel the heat, like a furnace, sucking the last of their strength.

Then suddenly they were falling, plummeting down the steep bank and into icy cold water. They gasped in shock as they went under, limbs flailing. The water was dark, almost black, and very deep, and they were separated. Illya clawed the darkness in panic, and managed to grab hold of Napoleon's shirt. He pulled until they were rejoined and, as the last of their air expired, pointed urgently toward the surface. Napoleon nodded, and together they rose, gasping for breath and coughing up the bitter water they had swallowed.

“Glacial pond,” Illya wheezed. “Not safe yet. Swim.”

They swam. A tiny island jutted up in the middle of the lake and they headed for it, muscles screaming with fatigue. They crawled onto the shore, shivering uncontrollably, and buried themselves amid the detritus of dead leaves and pine needles. They watched in silence as the fire surged around them. After what seemed an eternity, it passed them by.

“That was close," Napoleon coughed. "Clearly, somebody wanted us dead, and no questions asked. Any guesses who?"

_“La belle dame sans merci,_  I would imagine.” Illya smiled thinly. "You really should choose your dates with more care." He glanced across the water to the smoldering shoreline. "We should go while it is still light. Croyden undoubtedly will return to check on us soon, and who knows what wild animals may have escaped from Varga's compound during the fire. I should hate to run into a grizzly bear in the dark." 

"My thoughts exactly.” With a sigh, Napoleon waded back into the icy water, and the pair began the long swim back to shore.

 

**Act IV: For Old Time's Sake...**

 

Waverly glanced up from the Telex he was studying, an urgent request for humanitarian aid from the Sudanese government. “Welcome back, gentlemen. It's gratifying to see that you've managed to make it back in one piece.”

“No less gratified than we are to be here, I assure you,” Napoleon said, fingering the bandage on his arm. “It was a near thing.”

“It would seem so. I've read your reports, and I have several questions --”

“Sir,” Lisa Rogers' voice interrupted via the intercom. “You have a visitor asking to see you. He's waiting downstairs in reception.”

“My schedule is rather full today, Miss Rogers. Please have them schedule an appointment for later in the week.”

“Sir --”

Waverly sighed. “What  _is_  it, Miss Rogers?”

“I think you're going to want to see this one.”

The visitor, a man, was escorted in minutes later by Miss Rogers and a pair of burly security guards. He was tall and gray-haired, and wore a raincoat and gloves, although the weather outside was warm and sunny. The lower half of his face was concealed by a white silk scarf, the kind an old-fashioned aviator might wear, and his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.

“God Lord, it's the Invisible Man,” Napoleon whispered  _sotto voce._ Illya snickered.

“Hardly, Mr. Solo,” the visitor said. He removed sunglasses and scarf, revealing a once-handsome face, now swollen and covered in painful, oozing pustules.

Napoleon stared. “Victor Marton! What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing good, I hope,” Illya quipped.

“Gentlemen,” Waverly declared firmly, “that will be quite enough.” He gestured to a chair. “This is a surprise, Victor, I must say. Won't you have a seat?”

“Thank you, Alexander. You, at least, have not forgotten the importance of courtesy.” He took the proffered chair, and removed his gloves with obvious difficulty. His hands, like his face, were covered in boils.

“Good heavens,” Waverly exclaimed when he saw them, “have you seen a doctor for those blisters?”

“Marton shrugged. “It's an interesting tale, if you have the time.”

Waverly's sharp eyes studied the man and, after several seconds, he nodded. “I suppose it can't hurt to listen. Miss Rogers, please have a pot of tea sent up, and perhaps some scones and jam.”

“Coffee, if you don't mind, Alexander. I can't abide tea. A weak, pitiful brew.”

“Oh, yes, quite. Coffee then, Miss Rogers.”

She exited without comment.

“Now, Victor,” Waverly said, “perhaps you'll begin by telling us the purpose of your visit?”

“Need you ask?” Marton sighed rather dramatically, and held out his swollen hands. “Last week at THRUSH's annual awards banquet, we were just starting on the  _coq' au vin_  when everyone began breaking out in these putrid, weeping boils.”

Illya darted a meaningful glance at Napoleon. “ _Shekkin,”_  he murmured. “That makes five.”

Marton stared at the Russian. “What's that you're mumbling?”

“ _Shekkin._  It means 'boils' in Hebrew.”

“Nice to see you're continuing your education, Mr. Kuryakin. Clearly pedantry is not dead.” His eyes found Waverly once more. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the  _coq' au vin._  Our scientists identified a rare toxin in the wine sauce as the cause of the boils. The entire kitchen staff has, of course, been – disciplined.”

Waverly turned away, repulsed.

“Two weeks previously, our drinking water suddenly turned a rather unpalatable shade of blood red. Try making a martini with ketchup in your ice cubes sometime.”

“Do get to the point, Victor.”

“The week before that it was lice, thousands and thousands of them. They apparently got in through the ventilation system.”

“It serves you right,” Illya muttered, “after what your bees did in Geneva.”

“I had nothing whatsoever to do with those bees. That was entirely Mr. Mozart's affair.”

Illya shrugged. “Birds of a feather --”

Waverly's eyebrows rose. “ _Mister_ Kuryakin. I will not have a guest insulted in my office.”

Illya nodded unhappily. “Yes, sir.”

“The miserable vermin were everywhere, Alexander. They bit anything with a blood supply. We had to fumigate.” Marton shuddered. “I still have the scars.”

Waverly tsk-tsked.

“But I haven't told you the worst part.”

“Oh?”

“Two nights ago, someone killed my cat.”

“I beg your pardon, Victor. Did you say 'your cat?'”

Marton nodded, and his eyes grew curiously bright. “My precious Piaf.  _'Piaf's Grande Jet_ _é de Grenoble.'_ She was so beautiful -- a Turkish Angora, very rare, with lavender eyes. Some sick  _salop_  poisoned her. When I find the person responsible for her death, I swear I'll --” He sniffed, and reached casually into his coat pocket.

The agents stiffened.

“No exploding handkerchiefs this time, I promise. Merely a clue to share,  _mes amis._  He withdrew four identical sheets of stationery. “THRUSH Paris received these warnings after each emergency, from someone claiming responsibility for the travesties.” His eyes narrowed. “But you're not surprised to see the letters, are you?”

Waverly was silent.

“THRUSH Central believes that UNCLE is responsible for these --”

“Plagues,” Illya interjected helpfully. “No, we are not.”

“Really, Victor. UNCLE has no desire to create suffering of any kind, not even for THRUSH. The person responsible is a woman named Wilhelmena Darlington. She has promised 'a plague on both our houses.' Apparently, UNCLE and THRUSH are equally positioned in her crosshairs. Whether this is some misguided act of terrorism or part of a larger plan, we don't yet know.”

“Amateurs.” Vistor Marton shook his head. “What's the world coming to, when even a soulless organization like THRUSH is no longer safe?”

Illya rolled his eyes.

Miss Rogers arrived just then, pushing a cart laden with pots of rich, dark coffee and warm croissants. Waverly poured the first cup and offered it to his guest.

“It's not drugged, is it?” Marton asked.

“Certainly not, Victor. We are not hooligans, who have forgotten the meaning of hospitality.”

Marton sipped the strong brew, and nodded his approval. He glanced about the room, taking note of the picture window, recently installed, with its stunning view of the UN; the bank of ultra-modern computers dominating the far wall, and the gleaming silver humidor atop Waverly's desk. “I love what you've done with the place, Alex. Very -- industrial  _chic.”_ He sighed. “Although I see you've replaced that antique humidor I gave you.”

Napoleon's first thought was that he had heard wrong. “ _You_  gave him the humidor?”

“Surprised? Even a saint has secrets, dear boy.”

“And sinners,” Waverly added drily, “despite their protestations to the contrary, are not always the soulless creatures they pretend to be.”

_“Touché.”_  Marton peered at Waverly over the rim of his cup. “I was wondering, Alexander -- seeing as you have such persistent faith in my character, do you suppose we might consider joining forces in this affair?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I'm suggesting a truce. A ceasefire, if you will.” He shrugged. “Naturally, it would be only temporary, for the duration of the current affair.”

“And have your superiors at THRUSH Central been informed of your plan?”

“Certainly not! They know nothing about it. Collusion with the enemy is no way to reach retirement age in THRUSH.”

“True enough. So, to be clear, Victor, you are proposing --?”

“-- that our two organizations pool information and resources regarding this Darlington creature. Two heads may be infinitely better than one, especially when the heads are as clever as ours,  _n'est-ce pas?”_

Waverly sat back, his gnarled fingers steepled before him. “It's an intriguing idea, I'll admit.”

“Sir,” Napoleon interjected, “you can't seriously be considering this. A man like Victor Marton cannot be trusted to keep his word, especially not when the stakes are this high. Who knows what hidden agenda the man may have --”

Waverly held up a hand for silence, and Napoleon realized, to his dismay, that the Old Man was actually considering the offer. “And if I agree?”

Marton's smile reminded Napoleon of a fox about to raid the henhouse. “Ah, Alexander, it will be a collaboration for the ages, an opportunity to work with the best UNCLE has to offer. Frankly, I can't think of anything I'd enjoy more.”

Waverly, whose sharp eyes missed nothing, responded with a canny smile of his own. “Be careful what you wish for,” he said.

 

( _Continue on to Part 3: Dies Irae: http://archiveofourown.org/works/444784 )_

*/*/*/

 

 


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